


the haunted and the haunters

by syrupwit



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Drabble Sequence, Drinking, Ghosts, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), implied infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 15:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21147722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/pseuds/syrupwit
Summary: When Tony Stark comes back from the dead, Stephen is seven trances deep at a meditation retreat in New Mexico.





	the haunted and the haunters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).

When Tony Stark comes back from the dead, Stephen is seven trances deep at a meditation retreat in New Mexico. He gets the call two weeks later. Stark wants to meet.

Over the line, the dead man’s voice is easy, amiable. The past decade could have been a month-long sabbatical, or the week Stephen spent at the retreat. Stark invites him to LA, cajoles him out to drinks, brushes away his objections with his signature careless charm. In the background, Stephen can hear his family clearing up after dinner.

He accepts the invitation. Stark doesn’t really give him another option.

* * *

  


To his surprise, the bar is modest and quiet, tucked away in a neighborhood untouched by the usual nightlife. Stark waits at a booth in the corner. He sees Stephen before Stephen sees him.

“Doc,” Stark says, rising. Stephen takes him in: stiff spine, white teeth, graying hair. Handsome and neatly groomed, as usual. He’s self-conscious of the age that must show on his own face.

“This doesn’t seem like your scene,” says Stephen.

“No. But it’s yours.” Stark motions for him to sit; Stephen notes he’s already ordered. The glass of wine gleams as dark and viscous as tar.

* * *

  


If pain is an old friend, regret’s no stranger either. Even in these last few years, with the work he’s done to atone, Stephen has accumulated enough guilt to drown a mountain. But he doesn’t regret what happened on that battlefield.

Stark knows. He swishes his tarry wine in his glass and spews one-sided banter that has Stephen twisting his napkin in his lap. When their meal comes, Stephen doesn’t taste it.

“Why me?” he asks, at a pause in the farce of conversation.

Stark’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I think that’s a question for you to ask yourself.”

* * *

  


There are things in the wastes of this universe that feed on human desire. Stephen has met some. Most have tried to eat him. Until now, none have managed a taste.

“I don’t even want this from you,” he tells Stark. The hotel bed creaks beneath their combined weight. They’re still mostly clothed, but he feels desperate already, shaky, running clumsy palms across Stark’s back. It’s been years since he’s done this. He suspects that he had forgotten how.

“So stop me.” Stark’s breath is thick with wine. A solid shadow, he presses down heavier, harder.

Stephen kisses him instead.

* * *

  


Afterward, in the half darkness, Stephen lies awake. He came in civilian dress. It had seemed appropriate at the time, but now he misses the weight of the Eye at his throat. It’s a reminder, a tether to this world and his obligations. Sometimes he needs that.

Stark breathes unevenly, guiltily, his sunken chest aglow. Or is it? Streetlights echo in the mirrored window pane, lights from buildings, lights from landing planes. Light creeps under the hotel room door. In the hall outside, Stephen catches snatches of whispered conversation. When he closes his eyes, he opens them again on nothing.

  


* * *

  


He’s back in his room at the retreat in New Mexico. He’s back in Hong Kong, London, New York. He’s back in the house where he grew up. He’s back in the car that night, his mind racing ahead, heedless of the mounting rain. He’s back on Titan, and Stark’s begging him to kill him.

“Why me?” he asks again, feeling for Stark’s scarred hand over the sheets or the gear shift or the rocks. “You could have chosen anyone else.”

Bony fingers close around Stephen's like a trap slamming shut.

“Maybe it wasn’t my choice to make,” Stark says.


End file.
